


The Woman's Work

by wreathed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dominance, Dubious Consent, F/M, Het, Incest, M/M, Multi, Plot What Plot, Power Dynamics, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:23:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unlikely meeting of three minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Woman's Work

Sherlock is standing in a room. 

Irene Adler is there, hair up, wearing his greatcoat and with riding crop in hand, because that is how Sherlock remembers her. Mycroft is standing right behind Sherlock, leant against the wall, for the moment unmoving. The mirror on the wall – same as the one above 221b’s living room fireplace – shows Sherlock the sight of Mycroft in his favourite three piece suit and staring at him, reserved, breathing gently.

“Not naked for the purpose of introductions, Miss Adler?” Sherlock asks her. There is a quality about Adler, an irresistible quality, that means one always wants to address her first, no matter who else is present.

“I would have preferred my battle dress,” she concedes, quirking a tricky smile. “It’s intoxicating to watch you when you can’t work people out. I covered up at your brother’s request. He didn’t want you to get all _scared_. Though I’m not sure if he would have coped especially well either. Women look so _different_ , don’t they? No idea what to do. Bless.”

Across Mycroft’s face stretches what Sherlock recognises, via the mirror, as a familiar sneer of irritation.

“And why listen to Mycroft?”

Adler looks at Sherlock condescendingly, as if he has no idea about anything. “He’s the one paying.”

“You’re doing this for _money_? Money’s only money. No, there’s got to be a better reason... ”

“The only people who underestimate money are those who have always had plenty of it without having to try. I’ve got to know that kind of person well. But yes, right again, Mr Sherlock Holmes. I admit there is more than a mere financial motivation.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. Mycroft stays put, still uncharacteristically silent.

“Now, I know there’s only one person who’s ever got you off,” Irene continues, and Sherlock once again feels all at sea at the change of subject, at the subject’s nature; question marks might as well be lining themselves up across the coat’s lapel, the angle of her collarbone. “ _You._ Thinking about yourself, probably. You filthy boy. Vanity is a terrible vice.”

“I was always taught that lust was, too.”

“I’m not here for lust. I’m here for absolution.” She doesn’t even blink. “Put your hand on yourself, Sherlock.” 

“What?”

“You understand me perfectly well.” Her painted lips curve lovingly around the words; imperatives are her well-worn tools. “Wrap your hand around your dick. Do it. Or I’ll hurt you ‘til you’ll beg me to let you do it.”

That old thrill that _she_ brings on courses through him: like finding the solution, like learning something new.

Sherlock looks to the mirror to watch the way Mycroft closes his eyes, not supposed to see, and then the way he opens them again, unable to bear not looking. Still silent, Sherlock nonetheless recognises Mycroft’s shame.

Adler sees everything that passes between them.

With an impatient, elegant flick of the wrist, Sherlock undoes his trousers.

“You’re hard,” Irene states unnecessarily (Sherlock _knows_ when he’s aroused, thank you very much). “But I don’t think that’s all down to me, is it?”

“Why is Mycroft here?” Mycroft isn’t leaving, Mycroft isn’t looking away (Sherlock’s cock grows a little harder in his palm).

“It’s not healthy to relieve yourself as rarely as you do, Mr Sherlock Holmes. Your brother worries about you.”

“Are you here because you still–” 

“Let’s not bring my pulse into this. _Your_ pulse quickens when you need to think fast, when you solve the puzzle. Which is more messed up? Arousal over the arousing, or arousal over a dead body lying on the floor?”

Sherlock does not answer, for he is not supposed to.

“But this is new, or in any case, new to me... I don’t have any bindings to hand; Mycroft, hold his wrists together.”

Mycroft obeys, which is in itself mesmerising.

Softly, Mycroft’s thumb brushes against the dip of Sherlock’s palm as he pulls, forces, Sherlock’s wrists behind his back. His hands are strong, smooth, and now he is standing even closer; Sherlock can feel that Mycroft’s hard too and it makes Sherlock breathe in suddenly, once. Distracted. Appalled. Finding it difficult to think. 

Mycroft’s so close now that, at the point where Sherlock’s hairline meets his temple, he feels the brush of Mycroft’s eyelashes.

“Which is more messed up?” says Adler. “I see I gave the wrong choice of answers to my question. Arousal from the touch of your _brother_. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my job, it’s that there’s always someone out there whose thoughts are more depraved than anything I’ve ever managed to dream up.”

“It’s... sense memory, undoubtedly,” Sherlock says, feeling lighter headed. “Once, when we were younger–”

“Oh, my dear,” Irene smiles. She pushes her riding crop through the close of her fist. “That really doesn’t make it any better.”

“ _Please_ ,” Mycroft murmurs in his ear, and Sherlock cants his hips forwards at the longed-for sound of him, then pushes back, making Mycroft’s mouth fall open.

“Let me get myself off,” he pleads to Adler, cheeks flushing. “Let Mycroft–”

*

“Sherlock?” John is asking, and Sherlock is pulled from his imagination. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replies. “How odd. I don’t usually remember dreams.”


End file.
